


That Which Is Lost

by aban_ataashi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amputation Aftermath, Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, F/F, Meraad (OC), Post-Trespasser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23401048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aban_ataashi/pseuds/aban_ataashi
Summary: Meraad Adaar mourns what has been lost, and Josephine Montilyet reminds her of what has not.
Relationships: Female Adaar/Josephine Montilyet
Comments: 13
Kudos: 41
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	That Which Is Lost

For the first time, it occurs to Meraad that she might have to cut her hair.

She takes a deep breath- steady and barely shaking, because in the privacy of her own quarters she must stay strong- as she fixes her eyes on the reflection in the mirror. Long, loose strands of un-tethered silver hair obscure her expression. That’s fine; honestly, she prefers not to look herself in the eyes when she finally admits defeat.

In those first few days, she barely spared a thought for things such as this. Her mind was reeling over revelations and war plans and betrayal. When even walking felt wrong and unbalanced, her hair didn’t matter; she left it loose and tangled and didn’t _care._

But now she’s recovering, isn’t she? She’s sleeping through the night. With a bit of twisting and stretching she can secure the buckles on her own clothing. Dagna wants to show her a new crossbow design today, and it’s not as if Meraad has ever needed two hands to wield a dagger anyway.

Even the pain is not so bad anymore. True, she still feels the occasional phantom shocks, as if the Anchor were still fixed onto a nonexistent palm… but it happens far less often and with far less intensity than it did when the wound was fresh.

Meraad can handle the remnants of pain. She can handle the adjustments to her fighting style and her new center of balance. She doesn’t need help to live her own life, and she certainly doesn’t- shouldn’t- need help to _braid her own damn hair._

Maybe she should have cut it long ago. It’s always been an effort to care for, and she rarely indulges in silly luxuries. But when it’s loose it flows nearly to her hips, a soft cascading curtain of silver- the only thing about herself Meraad might truthfully call beautiful. She wonders what the others will think, when she shows up with her long, intricate braid chopped off.

If she can’t even save this small thing- if she can’t do this simple task she’s been doing since she was old enough to walk- how is she supposed to re-learn everything she knows about combat in time to face Solas once again? How is she supposed to be strong enough to lead her people to victory if she can’t even take care of herself? How-

In a burst of willpower, Meraad grabs a long strand of hair and make one more attempt. Keep this strand between these fingers, tuck another between these, twist the elbow this way to grab a third from the back-

Her lone hand fumbles as she tries to reach around her horns, and her fistful of hair falls from her grasp once more. Meraad slams her palm on the dresser in frustration, screwing her eyes shut against the traitorous tears that threaten to fall.

This is all silly. She hasn’t cried over the pain or the nightmares, and she will certainly not cry over _this_ of all things. She will cut her hair and that will be that. Meraad moves to wipe her eyes and out of habit moves the wrong arm, exposing herself to the disorientation of sending commands to a hand that is not there, and the boiling frustration that has been building inside her all morning finally escapes in a choked sob.

“My love?”

Meraad jolts upright, realizing with a pang of guilt and embarrassment that she has woken Josephine. She hurriedly wipes away her tears- with the correct arm, this time- and turns to assure Josephine that everything is fine.

But before she can say a word, Jospehine appears behind her, taking in the scene, and without a word reach out to run her fingers through Meraad’s hair. She stands there for a moment, neither woman speaking, and then Josephine begins to braid.

At first Meraad wants to protest, but the feel of Josephine’s fingers, methodic and steady in their task, is soothing. Besides, she still doesn’t trust her voice not to shake. So she lets Josephine work, and as she does Meraad studies the other woman’s reflection in the mirror.

Josephine is still in her long nightdress, her hair own still tousled from sleep. But her eyes are as alert and perceptive as always. It is her eyes that Meraad watches; they are lovely, deep and intelligent and always so expressive. Meraad searches those eyes now, certain she will find pity- or worse, disappointment. Josephine has always been the strongest believer in Meraad’s strength. She has always been the last person Meraad wants to let down.

But in this moment, Josephine’s emotions are unreadable, even to Meraad. She simply continues her work silently until she has gathered all of Meraad’s hair into a long braid, which she then tucks over her shoulder. It is only then that she speaks, her voice heavy with sorrow and worry. “You have been through a great deal in a very short time. Do not demand so much of yourself.”

 _So much,_ she says. As if fixing her hair is the equivalent of leading a battalion.

Meraad frowns and stands, brushing past Josephine to collect her daggers from the other side of the room. “Why not? Everybody else does.” She is aware of how bitter her words are, but she can do nothing to sweeten them. “And I can’t afford to let them down.”

Josephine reaches an arm out to touch Meraad’s shoulder as she walks by. The touch is light and gentle, but it still stops Meraad in her tracks. “Do you know how many countries are completely self sufficient?” Josephine asks. “Do you know how many noble houses can sustain themselves with no allies or benefactors?”

She is using her ‘gentle reprimand’ voice, and even as the words make Meraad scowl, the familiar tone eases some of the tension in her chest. It is nice to know that some things don’t change, she supposes. And Josephine is talented enough to make even a lecture feel comforting. “I thought Ferelden was infamous for its independence.”

“Ferelden would not be standing if not for the Grey Wardens. And the Grey Wardens would have collapsed if not for the Inquisition. And the Inquisition would have failed a hundred times over if not for the people who believed in us and gave us their aid.” Josephine’s hand drops from Meraad’s arm, tracing down her forearm and wrist until their fingers are wrapped together. “Nobody stands alone.”

Meraad sighs, and she turns her gaze from the hand currently wrapped in Josephine’s to the hand that is not there. She doesn’t like looking at that empty space; it still feels so wrong, to expect to something there, even something unnatural and painful, and instead be reminded that there is _nothing._

“The Inquisition may have had assistance,” Meraad replies, “But it was still built on a foundation. What will happen when that foundation is damaged?”

Josephine reaches out to cup Meraad’s cheek and turn her head so that they are facing each other. “I know it will not all be as simple as this,” she says, brushing a stray lock of hair from Meraad’s face and tucking it behind her ear. “But you are still Meraad Adaar. That is one of two things you can never lose.”

Meraad releases a deep breath, closing her eyes and letting herself be soothed by the touch. “And what is the other?”

“You are my love,” Josephine answers, and though Meraad’s eyes are still closed she can hear the soft smile in her voice. “And you will not be facing the future on your own.”

Meraad lets the words sink in over a long moment, and then she nods, and decides that perhaps she will not cut her hair just yet.


End file.
